I Love You On Heaven And Earth
by SplatDragon
Summary: His heart soared when he remembered that, tomorrow, they would be singing it together. He always knelt in front of her, like a knight before his princess, often after a game in which he was a knight and she a princess, but tomorrow he wanted to have her curl up against his side as he played. Maybe, even, he could convince Imelda to let her sleep in their bed.


**Translations:**

_Mí amigo_ \- My friend  
_¡Salud!_ \- Health/Good health/To your good health/Cheers!  
_Hermano_ \- Brother  
_Amor_ \- Love  
_Sí_ \- Yes  
_Dios mío_ \- Oh God

* * *

"To our friendship! I would move Heaven and Earth for you, _mí amigo. _"

"_¡Salud! _"

Héctor's voice joined Ernesto's, clinking their shot glasses together as they had done so many times before, downing his, not noticing how his _hermano _watched him closely before spilling his own over his shoulder.

_"Hate me if you wish!" _Héctor had said, and he had meant it. But he had hoped, more than anything, that Ernesto wouldn't. They were brothers, had been since they were children, growing up in the orphanage together, and then on the streets. And he would never forgive himself if 'Nesto hated him for leaving in the middle of their tour.

Although it could hardly be called the _middle _of their tour. It was supposed to have ended months ago. First he was supposed to have been home for _Cinco De Mayo_, then for Imelda's, then Coco's, birthdays (and oh, had he and Ernesto fought then!), then for _Dia De Muertos_.

He was determined to be home for Christmas.

Héctor missed his family like he'd miss his arm, their absence like a hole in his chest. Each letter from his Imelda was read, over and over, until he could recite them without having to even look—he never did, though, he always read from the letter, from the swirling rise and fall of his _amor's _writing. Every letter would find itself folded into his pocket, held close to his heart as he performed, before being tucked away into his notebook, crinkled and faded and worn, when her next letter arrived.

He felt bad for leaving Ernesto, of course. They were a pair, always had been. They were _hermanos_, even if not by blood. He'd been the one who taught Ernesto to play his guitar, even!

But he knew Ernesto could make it on his own. He'd let Ernesto play all of his songs that they'd already performed, the man already had them memorized, all of them aside from those he hadn't finished and Remember Me. Ernesto was _good_, was the stronger singer of the two, and surely he could find someone else to write his songs? If Ernesto wanted, he'd be more than happy to write songs for him! They were brothers, had busked together for years, so of course he'd be willing to help him.

Héctor would _always _believe in his _hermano, _no matter what. And he knew he could do it without him.

They walked in companionable silence, Héctor enjoying what time he had left with Ernesto, feeling guilty for how badly he wanted to run, to sprint to the station, even though that wouldn't get him home any faster. He missed Imelda and Coco so, _so _much, and he'd be home by morning.

He could hardly wait.

His arm cramped, and his hand spasmed. Héctor frowned, shifting his guitar case to his other hand, shaking the one that had clenched. Ernesto glanced at him, a funny look in his eyes, "Are you alright, _amigo? _"

Héctor nodded, shrugging as he wiped his sweaty brow, "Must have played too much," he chuckled, throat clicking on a swallow, "hand's cramping."

Ernesto tilted his head, furrowing his brow as he slowed his already sluggish steps, "Are you sure? Why don't we go back to the hotel, you can leave in the morning." he offered, already beginning to turn around.

"No, Ernesto." Héctor frowned, licking his lips—how much garlic had been in that _chorizo_? _'Not this again.' _Ever since the toast, Ernesto had been trying to get him to stay the night, so he could treat him to 'one last breakfast' before seeing him off on the train.

And, as he had each time, he said "I already bought my ticket, Ernesto," he had bought it right after their show, when the homesickness had gripped him by the heart as he watched a little girl dance along to _El Poco Loco_, so that Ernesto wouldn't be able to talk him out of it, "And I can't afford another one." He had already sent almost all of his earnings to Imelda with his last letter, and their show had been compensation for their food and board.

A funny expression crossed Ernesto's face—frustration? annoyance?— but he simply said "Whatever you say, _amigo_."

Héctor's other arm cramped, and he grimaced, shifting his guitar case back to the other hand, but that one hurt, too. "Let me carry that for you," Ernesto offered, but Héctor waved him off. He didn't want to burden Ernesto more than he already had.

They continued to walk, Hèctor switching the guitar from hand to hand as the cramps demanded it, "I don't know how I'll make it without your songs," Ernesto broke the silence suddenly, "before you know it, I'll be playing street corners in Santa Cecilia again."

Héctor frowned at the distaste in Ernesto's voice. He knew his _amigo _wanted to make it big, but to sound so disgusted at the mere thought of playing in Santa Cecilia? In their home? _"We'll _be playing street corners in Santa Cecilia again." he corrected, before shaking his head, grimacing as it set his mouth to watering. "No you won't, 'Nesto," he sighed. "There are plenty more songs for you to sing. You don't need my songs to be famous."

_"Everyone _plays those songs, Hèctor!" Ernesto was clearly beginning to grow agitated, gesturing boldly with his hands. "It's _your _songs that everyone notices! When people listen to me-to _us _playing, it's _your _songs that they remember! That they hum and sing! People ask 'What song is that?' and when they tell them they'll know it's _us_, they'll say 'It was written by Héctor Rivera! I saw him and Ernesto De la Cruz perform it'!"

Héctor couldn't help but grin, although Ernesto did have a point. "Sing it your own way, then. Make them _your _songs." He cleared his throat.

"You should visit for Christmas," the younger man extended an olive branch, trying to break the silence. "We can perform for all of Santa Cecilia!" his fingers _tap-tap-tapped _on his guitar case, already planning a playlist.

_"Sí_," agreed Ernesto, "I'd enjoy that." Héctor couldn't help but to be relieved; with how Ernesto had been talking earlier, some part of him had feared he would never return home.

They fell into silence once more but, relieved to know that his friend held neither resentment towards him nor distaste towards their home, Hèctor didn't much mind it. It was nice, even, just enjoying the company of his _amigo_, the cool air of Mexico City at night, looking at the stars overhead.

It wasn't that late, he realized, about time for he and Coco to sing their song. With how sore Ernesto seemed to feel towards his music, and how much he had pushed to perform a changed Remember Me, he didn't think singing, or even humming, it would be a good idea. So he settled for tapping out the fingering on his guitar case, able to hear each note in his head, hear his precious Socorro's voice as though she were sitting right in front of him, sitting on the edge of her bed in her nightgown, hair in pigtails (that he had done, Imelda was hopeless at it despite how hard he tried to teach her), looking up at him as though he had hung the moon.

His heart soared when he remembered that, tomorrow, they would be singing it together. He always knelt in front of her, like a knight before his princess, often after a game in which he was a knight and she a princess, but tomorrow he wanted to have her curl up against his side as he played. Maybe, even, he could convince Imelda to let her sleep in their bed.

He decided, then and there, as the train station came into view that, starting the day after tomorrow, he'd teach Coco to play their song on the guitar. His guitar might be too big for her, but he'd scrimp and save every peso he could to get her a guitar.

_'Dios mío,' _

A sharp pain in his stomach.

Héctor was moving before he truly felt the pain, doubling over and cradling his torso as though, somehow, it could make the pain stop.

His face twisted, head turning from side to side out of his control, bile rising in his throat.

Héctor was only barely aware of a hand patting his back, another coming up to his chest to steady him. His hands, his feet, his _everything _was beginning to tingle.

"_Perhaps… was… _Chorizo_?" _

That was Ernesto's voice. And Ernesto was almost never wrong.

Right. Right. It was… just the _chorizo. _He'd just had some bad _chorizo_. He'd be fine by the time he got on the train, he'd be in perfect health when he got home.

_"I need to get home… to Coco… to Imelda…" _

It was just the_ chorizo_. Just the _chorizo_, not sitting right with the tequila. He just had some food poisoning, and it had picked a bad time to hit him. He could rest on the train, and he'd be fine by the time

Héctor Rivera was dead before he hit the ground.


End file.
